There Must Be Real Gods See, The

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.